


Thirteen Dances (Or, The Doctor Dances)

by Knackorcraft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet, Dancing, Dirty Dancing, F/M, Frottage, M/M, Sherlock can dance too, Tango, Three Continents Watson's got some moves, Very very minor original character death, Vogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:54:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knackorcraft/pseuds/Knackorcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to this kink meme prompt: "John is a great dancer: we're talking all types.  Not only is he able to pop and lock it, he's got some great ballet technique.  He was best at lifting / holding girls."</p>
<p>Thirteen chapters, thirteen dances, interwoven in two parallel tracks: John's past and his present. And maybe his future, too.  (I do love a happy ending with a bit of smut.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to Mazarin221b who beta-ed and encouraged and generally helped me to see this through, make it better, and finally muster up the courage to post it.

I.  

For months, Harry had begged, had pleaded, had cried and wheedled, for ballet lessons--lessons that in retrospect John Watson knows their mother could not possibly have afforded.  But Harry's determination to have her way was matched only by their mother's feelings of guilt, and somehow she had scraped together the fees.

Predictably, Harry hated it.  Never one for practice or for patience, Harry was annoyed to find that her feet didn't land as quietly as Anja’s, that her fingers didn't curve as beautifully as Sharon’s.  Worse yet, Madame Katrin required all girls to wear their hair pulled back in a tight bun.  Harry scowled as their mother tugged a brush through her thick mass of tight curls, trying yet again to slick her hair into place.  The final straw: the thirty minutes of barre work that began every lesson.  Boring, Harry proclaimed, and promptly began to lose her shoes, to misplace her leotard, to put an unseemly rip in her tights.  

Less predictably, seven-year-old John loved the dance studio.  He would climb the bench and stand tip-toed, watching the girls at the barre through the thin rectangular window in the wall that separated studio from waiting area. _I can do that._  He would watch, then hop down, moving with the steady 1-2-3-4 of tape-recorded piano music drifting underneath the studio door.  His fingers resting on the back of the bench, he would move his feet slowly, deliberatively, with unexpected grace.  First position, second position, third, fourth, fifth.   _Demi-plie.  Plie.  Releve.  Down and then up, down then up, lifting, stretching._

By the time Harry had stormed out of her third lesson, muttering obscenities loud enough to make the other mothers in the waiting area cast disapproving looks, Madame Katrin had already taken note of John's focus, his tongue running across his lips as his feet found their way to third, without direction, developing their own muscle memory.  John's mother was pulled aside.  Initial protests gave way to tentative acquiescence and soon John had begun lessons for nearly nothing: she has an eye for talent, Madame Katrin announces--and this is true.  (Madame Katrin also knows that a studio like hers is always in need of young men to partner the many girls eager to learn _pas de deux_.  John is an investment.)  John is a natural.  Harry howls in protest.   ("But boys don't do ballet.  He'll be a freak!”)  Harry rails; John, even at seven, simply shrugs.  John moves easily, focuses entirely.  One adjustment and he has it.

Seven-year-old John finds there is something about barre work that he loves.  (Later he will grow to love the discipline of footie drills, of practicing small, even stitches, of moving in formation, all in the same way.)  He can immerse himself in the precision of _battement fondue_ , hitting each mark in time with the music, in line with the dancers in front and behind; the pleasure of _rond de jambe a terre_ , the feel of his foot moving in smooth, easy circles.  The predictability, the visible rewards, the calm of the routine that comes during the quiet hour when he changes clothes and enters the studio.  Outside is homework and chores and bills, an angry sister and a harried mother.  Inside?  The steady rhythm of the piano and the soothing clunk of Madame Katrin's stick marking out the time.


	2. VII

VII

John is standing in a coatroom with Greg Lestrade, smothering a laugh as he rolls his foot at the ankle, chasing away the tingle of pain. Again. This was not quite what he'd imagined when he pulled out the suit from the back of his closet for the New Scotland Yard Winter Gala, but after watching Greg moon (yes, moon, there was no other word for it) hopelessly from the side of the dance floor, he'd decided to intervene. It wasn't the first time he'd done something like this for a friend, but the normally unflappable Detective Inspector was proving more of a challenge than expected.

"It's hopeless, John. Forget it. Just forget it. This was a bad idea."

"No, Greg, honestly. You've just about got it. My foot got in the wrong place that time, I'm used to leading. That was me not you." He schools his face into what he hopes is a sympathetic smile rather than a fully amused grin. "Just, just relax, okay?"

Greg grimaces, rolls his neck, huffs out a breath, and squares his shoulders. John tries another tack. "Look Greg, you're making this harder than it really is. Trust me on this one. Honestly, just go out there and ask her. Don't worry about your feet. Madam Katrin always said it's about the spirit, not the steps.” 

Greg's eyes narrow in curiosity. "Madam Katrin?"

John cuts him off. "Never mind that. You want my help or not? Right. We're doing this one last time and then you're going out there and you're asking her to dance." 

Greg nods. 

"So. Put your hand here." John grabs Greg’s right hand with his left and places the inspector's palm on the small of his back. "Yeah, palm open. And she'll put her hand here." John rests his hand on Greg's shoulder. "Good. Now we do the box step." Greg's jaw tightens. His eyes close, his feet move forward, then cut to the side, back, and over: mechanical but accurate. John smiles. "Perfect. Perfect, Greg. You've got it." John squeezes his shoulder, Greg's eyes open, and John smiles at him. Greg smiles back. 

In this moment of triumph, Molly Hooper turns the corner into the coatroom.

"Oh, sorry to interrupt I..." Molly's voice cuts off as she registers John and Greg, in the coatroom, John's hand around Greg's neck, Greg's hand on the small of John's back. As Greg jumps back from John, Molly's face reddens and she fumbles through the coats, decidedly avoiding eye contact with Greg or John. "Oh. OH! I uhm, well, I just popped in to get my lipstick from my coat pocket and, oh god I'm sorry I've interrupted something, haven't I?"

"No!" comes the answer from two voices, and Molly looks up, surprised. 

"No, I mean, it's okay. You don't have to--"

“No, Molly," John laughs, "you really didn't interrupt anything." He looks at Greg, gesturing with his head for the other man to continue.

Greg's got his hand round the back of his neck, pulling at his collar a bit. "Shit, this isn't how I, well," he looks helplessly at John, then starts again. "I wanted, you see John asked me.” He stops then starts a third time, as Molly looks from Greg to John and back again. "I don't know how to dance and John was trying to teach me." Now Greg looks up at Molly and breaths deeply. "Aw hell. There's someone I wanted to ask, you see, and," Greg swallows, takes a step forward. "And she's actually quite a good dancer and I didn't, well, I kinda wanted to impress her." 

"Oh." Her eyes are large and fixed on Greg. 

They stare at one another and John retreats silently. 

"Well, uhm, I'm sure you'll do really really well. I guess I'll ah get back to the ah--"

"Molly." Greg reaches out for Molly's hand and she freezes. "Molly? Would, would you dance with me?" 

John turns the corner, satisfied smirk barely contained, and stops short of walking into Sally Donovan. 

"Have you seen Molly? Or Lestrade for that matter? I swear to god if they don't..." but cuts herself off at the look on John's face. A lift of the eyebrow, a quirk of the lip. Clever Sally. "Yeah? Where are they?" 

John nods towards the coatroom. 

"Okay, well, whatever you did, thanks for that. It's about bloody time." Then suddenly she strides off, and John sees that she's angling toward DI Dimmock, heading directly their way. "Oi! Dimmock, stop where you are. Coatroom's closed for the next ten minutes." 

John chuckles as he watches Sally continue to redirect traffic, then reenters the hall to find Sherlock holding forth on the changing patterns of pigeon roosting across London. Two young women stand nodding, staring at Sherlock with undisguised longing. At John's approach, Sherlock abruptly ends his monologue and turns to John, shooing the girls away.

"Ah, I see our efforts have been successful."

"Our efforts, Sherlock? What on earth are you talking about?" John shifts his weight, gets comfortable. He loves this part.

"Really, John. Obvious. You left 35 minutes ago, quite clearly to teach our love-lorn Detective Inspector to dance so he could ask the equally smitten, equally oblivious Ms. Hooper. Location: ideally, out back for privacy, but as it was raining earlier the rather large cloakroom was a more likely choice. 25 minutes pass but no return? Things aren't going well then. You're a very capable dancer and teacher, so the problem was either Lestrade's coordination, unlikely, given his agility jumping fences and chasing down alleys--or his confidence, far more likely given the ugly break-up of his marriage seven months ago. The situation quite evidently required an intervention, so I sought out Ms. Hooper and made a comment on her lipstick, one designed to send her scurrying to her coat pockets, thus to the cloakroom, thus to DI Lestrade. I had to rely on your ability to see the rest of it through. And as you know, I have every confidence in you, John.”

John shakes his head. "You're a bloody romantic, Sherlock."

"Don't be ridiculous John. I am nothing of the sort. Lestrade's mooning had grown wearisome. I was simply arranging matters for my own convenience." 

John takes the drink Sherlock's held for him for the last 35 minutes, and lifts it to his friend. "You're a romantic, Sherlock, and I'll never let anyone tell me otherwise."


	3. II

II.

_Annnnd, there._ His hands grasp Danielle's hips precisely, they move together, _annnd, up. Turn._

He can feel the power of Danielle's body, perfectly centered, as she rests her hand on his extended arm, as they _tour de promenade_ in perfect time. He can feel the muscles and the bone and the sheer will and _god the beauty of it_ and this, maybe this is when John first thought of being a doctor.

The girls he partners are tiny, look frail, but John knows better: these women are fierce. They dance for seven, eight, ten hours a day. They stand on wooden blocks (lambswool can only cushion so much) until their feet bleed. They twist ankles, blow out knees, push themselves harder harder harder, in pursuit of a beauty that most of them will never fully grasp. John respects that. Hell, he enables that. He kneads their shoulders, he massages their calloused, bloody feet, he convinces them to eat just a little bit more. ("Just a slice of apple, just a bit of cheese.")

Dance is nearly scientific in its discipline; John craves that. The need to study, to dissect, to diagnose; the need to stand before the sublime, even knowing he will never fully understand it, fully reach it. If John Watson had a religion this would be it.

_Annnnd, higher._ Danielle's arms extend, her chin lifts, she rests calmly, trustingly, in John's hands. They are joined together, joined in a way that is more important than he can explain or even understand. Every eye is fixed on the beautiful woman suspended in air (suspended by him) above him. John Watson takes a slow breath and concentrates on maintaining the perfect balance of the beauty that rises above him. _There_.


	4. VIII

VIII

“I need to get into that office, John.  Five minutes and I'll have the financial records I need to establish the link between Nelson's pub and the Lisbon money laundering operation."

 John nods, absently rearranging the salt, pepper, and mustard containers placed on the pub table.  He looks at Sherlock.  "Okay, so what's the plan?"

 "The entrance to the office is behind the bar.  It's nearly empty at this time of night on a Tuesday.  You distract the bartender--get her out from behind the bar--and I'll get the necessary files."

John nods again, slides himself out of the booth, and heads to the bar.  

The bartender smiles at John and he smiles back.  "What can I get you, love?"  

******

Ninety minutes and three drinks later, John Watson has learned that April Macy is a nice girl who's had a series of bad breaks and worse boyfriends.  Sherlock has been dragged to a chair at the bar, where he's been uncharacteristically quiet--playing morose and impatient (okay, maybe not playing, but April doesn't seem to find it unusual) and tapping incessantly on his phone.  After allowing April to get John to tell a few of his stories (vague references to Afghanistan, not-so-vague references to his latest breakup), John has effectively turned the tables and drawn out April's own history: the deceased parents, the deadbeat brother, the train of boyfriends who ended in jail or worse.  The current boyfriend is always asking for money, never coming home.

"God," she shakes her head, "I don't know why I'm telling you all this.  Even my regulars don't know half the things I've told you tonight."  

"People just trust me, I guess.  Must be the bedside manner." He winks and she laughs.  John's still not sure how to get her away from the bar, but he keeps going, trusting his gut, even without a plan.

"Okay, totally different question.  Your favorite movie of all time."

"All time?"

"Yeah, and it has to be your real favorite--not just the one that sounds good to say."

"Alright, but you first."

"Okay." John pauses, squints one eye as he thinks. “ _Singing the Rain_.”  

" _Singing in the Rain_?" She says it slowly, like she's not sure she heard him right.

 John nods, repeats himself clearly. " _Singing in the Rain_.  Gene Kelly--genius.  Have you seen this movie, April?" She shakes her head and he mimes a pain in his heart, leaning forward on the bar.  "Donald O'Connor--he dances right up the wall.  And a young Debbie Reynolds.  Mhhmm."  John raises his eyebrows.  "Yes, _Singing in the Rain_.  That is my favorite movie and I'm man enough to admit it."  They laugh and John swigs the last of his pint.  "Now you. What's yours?"

"Okay, but if I tell you you have to promise not to laugh.  It's, well, it's a bit of a guilty pleasure."  John composes a very serious face.  " _Dirty Dancing_."

 " _Dirty Dancing_ ," he repeats, lips pursing, head nodding, smile not-very-effectively held in check.

"Yeah.   _Dirty Dancing_."  Now she's warming to it.  "God I loved it.  Watched it all the time.  Wore out two VHS tapes.  Used to practice that final dance with my friend Natalie, over and over."  

"Yeah?"  John nods and allows himself a small smile as a plan begins to form.

"Okay--I gotta run over to that table for last call.  You need anything?"

"Nah, we're good."

"'kay.  I'll be right back."

When April has crossed the room, John retrieves his phone from his jacket pocket and begins the tapping away. He can feel Sherlock’s impatience as he leans in towards him, even before he hears him hiss: "This has been a complete waste of time, John.  We've gotten nowhere."

But John is unconcerned by Sherlock's whispered complaints. "I've got a plan now Sherlock."  John’s fingers tap out a rapid staccato as he watches the download bar creep toward completion.  "Take my phone, hook it up to the sound system—must be behind the bar—and play this song."

Sherlock looks at the screen, then looks to John incredulously.  "This is your plan, John?"

"Yes, Sherlock.  This is my plan." John stares at him and waits, uncertain whether this bit of crap telly will have been deleted or not.  

“ _L’arnacoeur_?”

"Yes." 

"That was a terrible movie."  Silence. Sherlock's brow furrows, his lips purse slightly. Ah, not deleted then.  "But," Sherlock concedes, "this may not be a terrible plan." John nods again.  "Just remember--I need a full five minutes, at least."

"Well then, put on the song and go already," John shoos him behind the bar.  "I'll make sure she's distracted."

As April crosses to the final table of drinkers, John sees two couples leave and two more tables gathering their things.  Perfect.  He pushes three tables to the side opening up a space in the middle of the emptying pub, and when the music starts, he looks over to April.  

****

_\--Now I had the time of my life, and I owe it all to you--_

_\--Cuz I had the time of my life, and I owe it all to you--_

****

He'd already taken off his jacket, about an hour ago.  Now he unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling them up just below his elbow, and hears the distinctive percussive beat he'd been listening for.  Eyes fixed on April, who stands, one hand at her side, one tucked in her jeans pocket, unreadable expression on her face, he starts to mambo across the room.   _Kick back stomp, kick cross step._  Arms loose.  Eye contact fixed.

He's closed the twenty or so feet between them and is extending his arm, his hand waiting for hers.

She stares him down, hand still on hip.  "Are you taking the piss?"

"April, does this look like me taking the piss?"  He wiggles his fingers, smiles with a tilt of the head.  April's eyes have narrowed, her lips possibly holding back a grin, quite clearly trying to decide if this is John being charming or--

"Oh hell, why not," and she takes his hand.  "It's closing anyway."  She smiles as they fall into a basic mambo--easy for two experienced dancers, even if they've never danced together before.  Their arms connect them, frame the space between their bodies.  A spin, a hop back, back to the basic mambo step.  Spin, turn it out, mambo it forward.  

"John," his name comes out as a giggle.  "You are good. Impressively good."

He smiles.  He's always taken a certain pleasure in this moment, the moment of recognition, the recalibration he can see taking place.  "No need to act quite so surprised."  She laughs again.  "Though," he says as she turns in from another spin "I don't exactly remember the whole thing.  Is this the part where you put your arms up?"

"Oh god, that's right."  She smiles as he puts both hands on her hips.  Her arms circle over her head as she leans first to the right, then to the left, hair brushing her shoulders a bit as she sways.  

****

_\--You're the one thing I can't get enough of._

_But I tell you something.  This must be love--_

****

Spin out again, then back to the mambo, this time with a slower, deeper scoop, hips and thighs touching.  The few patrons left in the booths have noticed by now and are clapping and whistling.  

"God, I don't suppose you can do the lifts.  Can you?"

John rolls his shoulder, squints the left eye as he feels the pain in that shoulder.  "Not THE lift, the one over the head, no.  But do you know how to do the lower turn on the hip?"

She nods, eyes wide.  "At least I used to."

"Right then.  Let's do it."

"Seriously?  Oh my god."  She tips her head back, smiling at the ceiling.

"Ready?  I'm going to spin you out, turn you, then when you come back in I’ll lift you from here, okay?"  He bends his left arm at the elbow to indicate where he’ll support the weight, then pats her shoulder blade with the right.

She takes a deep breath, laughing again.  "Okay."

John feels the body memory taking hold and, even though it's been years _god a lifetime ago_ since he partnered someone in a lift like this, he's relieved, amazed, exhilarated to feel how it comes back to him.  The lift isn't perfect, but it works, and though his shoulder couldn't stand to support someone like that with any regularity, John feels the weight of her body shift from his left palm back into the shoulder blade and he knows that he's got enough adrenaline pumping that he won't feel much pain until tomorrow.  

They finish out the dance and when they conclude the few patrons still in the pub all stand to applaud.  John inclines his head and gestures to April who, standing in the middle of the floor, still in her jeans and sleeveless blouse, seems utterly transformed.  It's the flush of heat in her cheeks, yes.  It's more, though, too.  

As the last stragglers leave, April locks the door and turns back to John who (realizing Sherlock still hasn't left the office) has followed her away from the bar and towards the door.  The kiss is sudden, but not unexpected.  John leans into it: she's a pretty girl, but he's on a case and he won't mislead her.  She's had quite enough trouble.  

When John gently breaks the kiss, April's eyes widen.  "Oh my god.  I'm sorry.  I don't know why I did that."

"Why are you apologizing?  For kissing me?" He pauses, trying to find the right words.  He's surprised to discover that he's a bit rusty at the letting-her-down-easy business, then remembers that all his girlfriends of late have dumped him, often with Sherlock's name somehow involved.

April leans in to kiss him again, but he gently places a hand on her shoulder, holding her back.  He shakes his head.  "Look, I'm not who you think I am and I'm definitely not what you need." April opens her mouth to interrupt, but John places one finger to her lips and hesitates.  "Part of me hasn't come back from over there." He glances at his shoulder.   _Too much?_ “I think part of me almost misses it." April's mouth forms a tiny O and his heart speeds up a bit.  "But you?  You deserve the best."  He touches her cheek, fingers trailing.

She lets out a slow breath, then beams at him.  "Thank you, John."

"For what?"

"Thank you, just thank you."  And she kisses him again, and John is thinking of letting the kiss continue until it's interrupted, this time by a baritone John knows all too well.        

"If you're quite ready, John, I think we've spent more than enough time here."

April waves off their bill, lets her hand linger on John's as she hands him his coat, and sees them—well, John (she hardly notices Sherlock)—out the door.  

 

******

As they reach the end of the block, John turns to Sherlock.  "So? Did you get it?"

 "Of course I got it.’” Sherlock nearly spits out the words.  "I took pictures of the relevant documents, then texted Lestrade to tell him which of Nelson's ledgers to examine.  The entire operation will be in shambles within 24 hours."

"That's great.  Fantastic.  Well done."

Sherlock says nothing.  His pace quickens and John breaks into a bit of a jog to keep up.  

"Sherlock, what is it?  There is a decided lack of gloating and that's very unlike you.  Out with it." John stops trying to keep up and stands on the pavement, hands pressed onto his hips.  He looks down at the pavement and breathes deeply, then looks up again.  "What's the problem?"

Sherlock circles back towards John, closes in on him.  "What you did in there.  It's quite evident that she'll leave her latest boyfriend, possibly this job."

"Good.  What's wrong with that then?"  John shrugs.  "She could do better and she should." 

"You kissed her."

"Well, technically speaking, she kissed me.  I just let her."

A dark expression passes over Sherlock's face, then he turns and strides away.  John stands where he is.  Bloody cock block.  Why should it matter to Sherlock if John kissed a pretty girl.  Just because this isn’t Sherlock’s area, why shouldn’t he enjoy a bit of…

John feels a spasm of anger and shouts after him the first childish response that comes to mind: "What's the matter, jealous?"  

John starts to laugh, but the sound catches in his throat when Sherlock looks over at him, eyes dark, jaw set. It's like a sudden hit to the solar plexus.  John feels breathless and stunned and a bit uncertain where he is.

Sherlock has started to walk again; at the corner, he lifts his arm for a cab and one pulls up almost immediately.  Sherlock opens the door and John hurries round to the other side.  He tries to catch Sherlock's eye, but Sherlock has his forehead pressed to the glass of his own window, looking out at the streets, away from John.  John takes the hint and sits lost in his own thoughts.  They are silent all the way home to Baker Street.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't clear from Sherlock's comment, John's strategy here is lifted from L’arnacoeur (Heartbreaker). This is my favorite guilty pleasure rom com (I adore French rom coms) and if you haven't seen it, you can check out the trailer here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3PuZo8qLxo


	5. III.

III.

School disco.  Winter hols.  Early Elvis Costello pumping out from 12-foot high speakers.  Walking into the all-purpose room, John can feel the humidity of several hundred Ninth Years sweating, smell the faint odor of cigarettes and cheap vodka.  Three hours of not-quite-freedom under the watchful eye of sidelined teachers, parents squinting nervously out of darkened corners.  John makes his way through the clumps of thrumming bodies, searching for Andy and Reg.

Moving through the crowd, John catches sight of purpled hair, a lacy top stretched off a strategically bared shoulder.  John recognizes her from a party down Center a few weeks back: he’d gone to fetch Harry.  She was one of two girls who’d led John through the house, helping him to pull Harry out of the kitchen.  Harry went, but not quietly: she’d been yelling, laughing, sloshing her drink until it was empty by the time he’d maneuvered her outside and started leading her out toward the bus.  John knows she’s younger than Harry but still a year or two ahead of him.   _Name, god, name, Laura, no L, L, Leila.  Leila._    

“You’re Harry’s little brother.”   The sound of her voice, hard to hear over the music coming out of the speakers sitting on either edge of the stage, startles John into looking away from the fit of the lace stretched across her shoulder—and he looks up to find her smirking at him.  “Joe, right?”

John nods, then leans in towards her ear, relishing the feel of his lips against her hair.  “Harry’s my sister, yeah. But it’s John.”  John never thinks of himself as the little brother.  

Her body angles away from the two girls she was dancing with and she turns to face him.  A hand tousles his longer-than-usual hair.  “You’re cute.”

John would ordinarily flinch at that backhanded compliment—it’s usually a dismissal—but Leila’s fingers are still in his hair, drawing him closer.  He hesitates, but quickly takes the hint and moves two steps forward, leaning in towards her ear: “Is cute a good thing?  Because I was thinking more like—“

“No,” she laughs, fingers moving across the ribbed collar of his t-shirt as she interrupts him. ”Cute is good.”  

“Okay, right then.  Good.  Cute works.” His hands slide up her sides.  

The song shifts and they’re moving together.  Feet planted, thighs, hips thrusting forward, eyes closed as music grows louder.  Not dancing, not really, but pounding and loud and yes he might be glad yet that he promised to show up this evening.  Bouncing at the knees, harder, faster. Head lolling now, forward, loose.  He feels the music, feels it entirely for just a few measures, then comes back to himself suddenly, keenly aware of his place in this room, so close to this girl with purple hair and perfect lips and he feels a hand on his wrist now, pulling, weaving him through the crowd.  

Oh Christ please yes.  

Charcoaled eyes look back over her shoulder, red lips darkened black, smiling, promising.  Rumble of the bass getting lower as he's pulled out of the hall, through the girls' lockers, to the brick back wall of the school.  Door hastily propped open, sound of eighties synthesizers  and _hold me now warm my heart_ floating out, slower, insistent.  Yes, this, yes.  Softer than the dancers’ bodies he's so accustomed to holding, to pressing, to lifting, oh god yes lifting against the wall now.  Leaning, pushing, hands everywhere, mouths finding each other, hot and messy and so very very good.  Gasping, whispered requests, breathy sighs and warm skin touching.  When they finally break apart, she laughs and he strokes one last sigh from her lips and he can hear the strains of the last dance of the night as they walk back, her hand resting comfortably in his.

 


	6. IV

IV.

_Christ, Watson, do it or don't.  Just stop dicking around._  John looks again across the room, then pushes back from the round table he's seated at and turns to Pete.  He's known Pete since second year of uni--and even though he hasn't seen him in the six years since they graduated, John knows him well enough to not have to make excuses.  

"You gonna dance?"   

Pete shakes his head: "No man.  Two left feet.  Fucking weddings."  Pause.  "You?"   

"Yeah, think I'm gonna try my luck."  When he was young, his friends used to rib him about the time he spent in Madame Katrin’s studio—but they stopped laughing right around John’s fourteenth birthday when it became clear that being a good dancer was a stunningly effective method of pulling girls.  John still loved dancing for the sheer pleasure of the movement, the discipline of the dance itself—but without question, the dancing-as-seduction technique had been a welcome addition to his growing arsenal of tactics.

John lifts the glass in front of him, draining the last of his pint, then nods in the direction of the red head laughing with friends two tables over.  

Pete nods appreciatively: "Lizzie?  Sarah says she just called it quits with that boyfriend of hers.  Guy was a prick anyway."

The song winds down and John stands up.

As John approaches, Lizzie catches his eye.  "John Watson!  Come sit with us.  Mel says you're finishing up med school. I want to hear all about it."  John smiles, nods, but remains standing.  

"Actually, I wondered if you wanted to dance."  

"Ahhh, yeah.  Yeah I'd love to. You okay here Mina?"  Her friend nods, casting John an appraising look.  

"Yeah, Lizzie, go dance.  I'll watch your bag."

_Take her hand? No, too familiar. Not yet._  They step to the edge of the floor and pick up the informal groove of the others already there.  She leans forward, mouth close to John's ear, making her voice heard over the music.  

"You and Duncan played rugby together, right?"

"Yeah, still play pickup the odd Sunday.  Not as much now I'm at Bart's.  Crazy hours."  

Lizzie nods, hips twisting, arms lifting to the music.  "Mel said you're doing really well."  John smiles, shrugs.

They exchange fragments of conversation, dancing their way through the bridge.  The song ends and the next song starts.  A slower song. Perfect.  John offers his hand: "Another dance?" 

She puts her hand in his, and John pulls her close.  She stiffens a bit (too much? too close?) looking down, then back up again.  "I'm not much of a dancer, actually.  I'll end up stepping all over your feet here--and in these shoes" she says, breaking their rhythm to extend a leg to show a black pump, tall thin heel, red painted toes peeking out-- "well.  Not good."  She lifts her eyes, biting her lower lip with a smile that's only part apology.  

"Not to worry.  I'll lead, you follow.  Feel my hand here?" He strokes his fingers behind the small of her back; John feels her wriggle beneath his hand, toward his body, and takes a steadying breath.  "Use your arm to push against me here" and he uses his left to readjust her hand on his shoulder.  "That tension should be enough for you to feel which way I want us to move."  

She pushes a bit harder, and John exaggerates their steps so she can feel the cue more clearly.  They move together and she smiles.  "Right.  Oh, I can feel that.  So that's leading?  Oh you're good, aren't you?"  She smiles, focuses.

John relaxes into the dance, leaning his mouth down to the curls of red hair, whispering encouragements.  ("Right, now left.  Feel it?")  Lizzie is concentrating on the steps; John is concentrating, concentrating intensely, on Lizzie.  They're close enough that John can smell her hair, and he breathes it in.  

Now she begins to relax into the steady rhythm of the dance and looks up again.  "John Watson, I never knew you were a dancer.  I would have had you teach me years ago."  Her fingers stop pushing, graze up his shoulder towards his neck.

"There's quite a lot you don't know about me, Lizzie."

"Really?  Let's have it then."

"Welllll."  His mind blanks for a moment, focused on the smell of her hair and the small peek of painted toes out of tall black pumps. (Could slide those shoes off, could make those toes curl.)  "Well, for example, my second metatarsal is longer than my first."

"You're showing off now, John, all that medical talk."

John smiles.  "And are you impressed?"  

"Deeply."  Her voice drops and he can feel her lean into him just a bit more.  Good. "Tell me more."  

“I play a decent game of rugby but I'm rubbish at football."

"That's okay.  I don't like football that much anyway."  

"Good news for me."  John pulls her a bit closer and spins them around.  Lizzie giggles, head back, and John pulls her closer yet.

"Tell me more."  Straight into his eyes.  "Surprise me."  Leaning forward.

John lifts a hand to brush a lock of hair from her face.  "Would it surprise you to know that I've wanted to kiss you this entire evening?"  Her eyes are wide, her breathing nearly stopped.  John presses into the rhythm of the dance, something powerful coiled behind all the apparent control.  "Can I do that?  Can I kiss you now, Lizzie?"  

She nods, very slightly, closing her eyes, and John closes the last few inches between them.  


	7. IX.

 IX

It starts as a bit of a lark.  Post-case euphoria.  John's in the kitchen, making tea and remembering the unlikely, frankly amazing series of deductions and circumstances that ended with the recovery of a valuable 16th-century Swiss watch from a pair of double- and triple-crossing thieves.  John is humming to himself, shifting his weight with an extra _step ball change_ , feeling centered, feeling _god, alive_ , and when he turns 540 degrees (even if he never learned to spot properly, he still enjoys the sharp snap of a turn or two) he's facing right into Sherlock, who's apparently entered the kitchen in search of solution to clean the slide necessary for the experiment he's conducting in the next room.  

Sherlock steps to the left, John to the right, and they're still directly in front of one another.  His dancer's instincts alight, John shifts his weight back to the left, but Sherlock too has moved and now their momentum has brought them closer together.  John, filled with adrenaline and affection and a bit more daring than he's felt in a long damn time, laughs and thinks what the hell and grabs Sherlock's hand (the one with the slide) at the wrist and extends it a bit as he wraps his other arm around Sherlock's waist, then takes advantage of Sherlock's surprise ( _god that's rare, isn't it? catch him off guard_ ) to push into Sherlock, spinning both of them round in a tight circle.

Sherlock stiffens for a moment.  Stiffens, but doesn't pull away.

"What are you doing John?"

"It's called dancing, Sherlock."  With a grin John continues, pulling Sherlock a bit, leading him, drawing him closer.

"Yes, obviously.  But why?"

"You're the genius.  You work it out."  John waits, a bit stunned by his own daring, to see what will happen next.  

Sherlock cocks his head, thinking, allowing himself to be pulled closer yet, awkwardly following John's lead. "Very well. We'll start with the clear physical signs: typical post-case endorphins, leading to increased satisfaction and sense of playfulness."  

Sherlock keeps talking, but John—unusually—is not listening.  Not really.  Instead, he's feeling the slight curl of Sherlock's fingers around his, the friction of Sherlock's tailored trousers against his own as John concentrates on maneuvering them around the table while keeping Sherlock close, the smooth feel of Sherlock's cuff brushing the sensitive skin at John's wrist.  

John imagines what it it would be like to walk his fingers up Sherlock's spine, to slide them into the thick hair curling at the nape of Sherlock's neck, to trace a small gentle circle there. He leans into the rumble of Sherlock’s voice, ignoring the tumble of words, allowing himself to imagine what might happen if he tightened his hold around Sherlock’s waist, if he leaned in and stretched upwards towards Sherlock’s lips.  John can feel himself hardening and he can feel heat spread on his cheeks as he realizes that Sherlock can feel it too.

Then with a start, John realizes that Sherlock has stopped talking.  

As John pulls back slightly, he finds Sherlock staring at him.   _Shit_.  John’s eyes are caught in Sherlock’s gaze, while his mind spins madly: what was Sherlock saying?  

"John? Am I right?"

"What?" Breathes in.  John’s lost the thread.  Why would Sherlock be asking John if he’s right?  Sherlock looks a bit lost too, uncomfortable and uncertain.   

Something has jumped the rails in this conversation and John doesn’t need to be a genius to know that the problem boils down to him.  Shit.  Not Sherlock’s area.  

Instantly John lets go, practically pushes Sherlock away.  “God Sherlock I, I’m sorry, I didn’t, I, I’ll just…”  He’s taken two steps backwards but it’s not helping because now when he looks at Sherlock he’s not sure what guts him more: the bewildered look Sherlock gives him as John disentangles himself from Sherlock’s hands on his arms; the oddly vulnerable look on Sherlock’s face as he breaks eye contact and looks to the ground with two slow blinks; or the shuttered expression Sherlock’s composed when he looks back up at John.   _Christ, Watson. Fuck._

John opens his mouth to make some excuse, but it’s clear to John that they both know what just happened: Sherlock made it clear when they met that he has no interest in a sexual relationship with anyone, and certainly not with John. John closes his mouth again and swallows.  

He forces himself to meet Sherlock’s eyes, and tries again.  “Sherlock I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

But in the moment that Sherlock holds up a hand to stop John, and John wonders if he just imagined the slight tremor in Sherlock’s gesture—at that very moment, there’s a rap on the door.

“Whoo hoo!  Boys!  I've brought you a little warm up, just enough to tide you over until….”

Sherlock shifts to a different part of the kitchen, eyes cast away from John.  John mutters a quick obscenity under his breath, then turns to welcome Mrs. Hudson and offer her a cup of tea.

****  
  



	8. V.

V.

Fucking hell.  So this was his 15 minutes of fame--a fucking youtube video.  John laughs as he reads, then re-reads, Harry's email.  Graham, he thinks to himself, you fucking wanker.  

Of the many things John had not anticipated in Afghanistan--and there were many things that he hadn't expected--it was the hours of boredom, the hour after hour after hour of looking through the heat, over the sand and concrete, and _god the endless hours of waiting_ , that took him most by surprise.  All the waiting meant a number of things.  It meant his poker face, and his poker game, improved considerably.  It meant watching as some of the younger guys passed the time wrestling and boxing and it meant turning a bit of a blind eye when they dreamt up frankly ridiculous competitions--like seeing who could remain standing when another took a running leap to knock him over.  It meant patching them up, dispensing paracetamol (and more) when they bruised ribs, split lips, blackened eyes.   _Christ, these kids._

And, as it turned out, it also meant dancing.  Graham liked the Cha-Cha Slide, would play it in the barracks, their work station, wherever.  And John took to it right away.  It got to be, well, a thing.  Guys would wander in, do the moves, do the work, have a laugh, go about their business.  And if John could do the moves a bit more enthusiastically than the others, well, nothing wrong with that, was there?  

Also, it was a laugh. _\--Right foot let's stomp. Left foot let's stomp.  Freeze! Everybody clap your hands.--_ The long stretch of the spine, the slight burn in the muscles as John tightens the diaphragm and rocks the pelvis, left hand clapping into the palm of his right.  Part of his brain catalogues the muscles (gluteus maximus, adductors, biceps femoris, quadriceps femoris). Part of his brain takes note of how Roland's eyes linger on  John when he thinks no one else will notice.  (John notices; John always notices.)  Part of his brain turns off, just lets his body move him, move him out of this place of sand and heat and blood.

Graham watches John, nods appreciatively.  "Look at you, Watson.  Cock of the goddamn walk."

"Damn right,"  John laughs.

"But oh my god, look at Dodd.  What the hell is that, Dodd?  Man, that shit is just sad."  Graham doubles over in laughter, waving his hand slightly hysterically at Dodd.  Roland sniggers and John tries very hard not to laugh.

Dodd stops the awkward wiggle of his hips, looks round the room and shrugs, joins in the laughter.   _Good man, Dodd._  "Alright then, Watson--you're so good?  Teach me some goddamn moves."

John does.  And then a week or two later Graham plants a camera and leaves it running.  And damn, John's got his moves that day.  They all do--Johnson walking right in front of the camera.  Weimer walking through, L85 slung across his back.  Graham hopping and sliding as he cleans and reassembles the pieces on the shared worktable.  Even Dodd does a passable cha-cha.   _Dodd.  Good man, Dodd._  But no question--the star of this video is one Captain John Watson: the wiggle of the hips, the isolations in the shoulders, the sliding and the stomping and the shaking of his very fine ass.

And then?  Well, then Graham posted the video to youtube and sent the link to his girlfriend.  And she posted it to facebook.  And after that it got crazy.  50 views, then 400, then 900, then 5000, and then it exploded.  Nearly a half a million fucking hits on youtube.  

John reads the comments for laughs sometimes. They all do. They laugh especially hard at the propositions that show up in the comments—most often for John.  "Three Continents Watson," Graham's started to call him. John rolls his eyes, but not-so-secretly likes it.  Dodd claps him on the back, tells him that his 8-year-old daughter has sent the link to all her friends. "Bit of a celebrity in her school," he says, slipping a worn picture back into his pocket.  "Proud of her old man, I guess." Dodd pauses, clears his throat.  "Thanks for that." John nods.

Seven weeks later, John is covered in Dodd's blood, trying desperately, unsuccessfully, to staunch the bleeding from his femoral artery.  The patrol was supposed to be routine and John has limited supplies and everything is going wrong.  He's ripping apart a shirt now and applying pressure in all the right places and _not working not working it's not working_.  They are careening back to base as quickly as Roland can navigate the dusty path, but John knows already.  Dodd tries to clear his throat and the rattle John hears is not good not good at all, so when Dodd pulls John down, ear to his mouth, and whispers a message for Lucy and her mother, and pleads with John to deliver it, John promises he will.

In his nightmares John will play back this terrible irony, the thanks of a dying man he could not save, over and over again.  He will bolt upright out of his sleep, sheets soaked in sweat.  And he will never listen to that goddamn song again because even his distant repressed memories of the good man he could not, did not, save hurt too damn much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by a very specific video. If you haven't see it yet, check out this link. You'll know my John Watson when you see him! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NX5ZVC1YY1k


	9. X

X

John double checks Sherlock's text as the cab rounds the corner and pulls in front of the address in Soho.  

          Require your assistance.  11:30pm.  7 Brewer St. --SH

It’s the only word he’s had from Sherlock all day.  Last night had been painfully awkward: Sherlock refused to touch any of the food Mrs. Hudson had brought, so John ate quickly then fled to his room, still mortified by his violation of their unspoken boundary.  Sherlock, clearly, was uncomfortable too: there’d been no sign of him when John came down to make his tea and toast, but when he’d emerged from the shower, the plate he’d left for Sherlock had disappeared.  Shit.  Apparently this was not something they were going to talk about.

John left for the surgery, checking his phone between every patient in an agony of hope and fear.  No word.  A deafening silence given the volley of texts that usually arrived when Sherlock didn’t have a case.  The flat was empty when John returned, though just when John had begun to worry in earnest, the phone buzzed with Sherlock’s message.  Not shut out of cases then.  That was something.  Better than the freeze-out he’d started to fear.

As the cab comes to a stop, John looks at the location, The Shadow Lounge, then back to the text again.  Right then.  The Shadow.  With a nod of the head, he counts out the bills for the driver and steps out of the cab.  

Long time since a scene like this.  Bit underdressed. Sherlock could have warned him; he'd have changed his shirt—or his shoes at least.  John peels off his woolen jumper and finds what he hopes is a suitable hiding spot.  With any luck, he'll pick it up when they're done.  If not, well, he'll consider it his latest contribution to Sherlock's homeless network.

John steps into the club, passes the main bar, and surveys the space.  By the time he's searched the back room (dominated by a second bar and filled mostly by people awkwardly trying not to dance), the club has begun to fill up.  He skirts the outside of the dance floor, searching for Sherlock and expecting to find him lurking in some dark corner.  As he moves to the additional dance space (a bit darker, more strobes of light) he hears the music change and the energy of the room pick up even as the music slows: one thin, elongated note, the sound of fingers snapping, a voice burned into his brain during the nineties.  

_\--Strike a pose--_  

John's eyes close momentarily and he exhales on a laugh; the song instantly transports him to late nights out with Harry and Clara.  John sets aside the surprisingly happy memory, focusing instead on finding Sherlock.  

After walking through the knot of men gathered by the DJ (where his trousers and buttoned up shirt are clearly assessed and found wanting), John's about to head back towards the first bar when a flash of plum shirt catches his eye.

Oh.  OH.

It's Sherlock.  And he's voguing.  

John forgets to breathe for a moment and instead stands watching, transfixed.  Sherlock--surly, sulky, emaciated Sherlock--has transformed himself into something, someone, utterly unrecognizable.  John's seen him do this before, of course: all simpering smiles as he buzzes a flat and sweet talks his way in, crying on cue to elicit unintentional confessions, slouching in a hoodie to blend into his homeless network.  But he's not blending in now.  No, John realizes as he looks around, he's not the only man whose eyes have been drawn to the ethereal, downright gorgeous figure striking poses on the floor.  

One long arm twists as it pushes out to the right, shoulder rolling in, and John watches the pull on the buttons of the shirt as Sherlock’s other arm extends and the shoulders twist back in the other direction.  The first hand reaches up and back, the long arm creating an angular frame, the dark curls jostled slightly, though everything else about Sherlock seems cool and implacable.  Like origami, John thinks, all long lines and sharp corners folded into fantastical, breathtaking shapes.  The other arm reaches up and Sherlock's hand grasps an elbow, arms above his head in an alarmingly sexy contortion slightly behind his neck.  The pose lasts not more than a second, but something in John's brain plays it all out in slow motion, noticing the long white fingers, the beauty of the face (god, the cheekbones), the fluidity of Sherlock's entire frame.  He watches the buttons strain, pulled tight by constant, fluid gyrations.  

Sherlock's hands move down to his own waist and his thin frame seems to collapse in on itself as the elbows thrust forward.  John's body offers a sympathetic thrust of its own.  John stands, not quite in the corner, not quite on the dance floor, hoping Sherlock hasn't seen him yet (unlikely, Sherlock never misses anything), unable to stop watching.  John's breathing has grown shallow and he feels a bit lightheaded, hypnotized by the undulating motions of Sherlock's long fingers, wrists always touching (as if bound together, John can’t help but think), writhing in slow figure eights as Sherlock moves his arms in a gentle, utterly seductive circle above his head.

John is vaguely aware of younger men in Sherlock's proximity, of their spins and dips and dramatics, but his eyes (like the eyes of almost everyone—man or woman--in proximity) are fixed on Sherlock, who now has one hand stretched up toward the ceiling and the other slowly snaking down the arm, then across his own chest.  John watches, heart hammering, as Sherlock lowers the first arm down, twining his fingers into his own dark locks, eyes closed against the pounding intrusions of the light and the noise and the press of bodies all around him.  

The song ends and Sherlock's eyes snap open.  John observes the grim, set line of Sherlock’s usually curved lips, a certain dullness in his eyes. It strikes John that the people and places evoked by this song may not be as fond for Sherlock as they are for him. But before John is sure of what he's seen, it's gone; the confidence of the Sherlock John knows returns.  Sherlock finds John in the crowd and winks at him, then turns to kiss a tall blond man who's been dancing next to him. John watches closely, his right fist clenching and unclenching, as Sherlock whispers something in his ear, then draws his long finger down the man's chest and sweet Jesus did Sherlock just bat his eyes?  The blonde smirks, then saunters (though John senses a bit of urgency in his ostensibly cool gait) toward the bar.  Sherlock stays where he is, gestures John to join him.

"Sherlock, what the hell--"

“Shh, John.  No time.  The man's name is Henrick Suorsa.  He's going to come back with a drink from the bar and I need his fingerprints."

"Okay, but how?"

"The glass, John."

"But the--"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock interrupts, impatient.  "Obvious problem, but I've already fixed it with the bartender.  He owes me a favor.  He'll make sure Suorsa gets a clean glass with no other fingerprints."

"So I'm here to do what, exactly?"

"Once he returns, you bump into us and spill the drink, then under the guise of going to buy me a new one, take the glass outside.  We'll meet in the alley behind the club."

Then Sherlock grasps John by the shoulders, turns him 180 degrees, and gives him a gentle shove as he turns back into the throng of dancers closer to the center of the floor.

 

John drifts back towards the edge of the room, his eyes shifting between the shape of Suorsa pressing through the crowd massed around the bar and the figure of Sherlock on the dance floor, hands once again lifted above his head, the long torso moving in a slow, dead-sexy pivot. Two songs later, John watches Suorsa push his way back through the orbit of hopeful men circling around Sherlock, offering one of the two drinks he holds.

John momentarily forgets his role as he watches Sherlock shake his head, refusing the drink and instead twisting his arms round Suorsa’s neck, pulling him closer to whisper in his ear, hips pushing up against Suorsa with the thrum of the music.  John remains motionless as Sherlock continues to wrap himself around Suorsa, his lips moving away from the man’s ear and down his neck; John feels a combination of revulsion and something else he can’t quite identify as he watches Suorsa’s eyes close, jaw fall open slightly, arms held out awkwardly to the sides, clearly wishing to abandon the two glasses of wine to run his hands across Sherlock’s….FUCK. The glasses.

John jolts into action, weaving his way through the clusters of dancers towards the purple shirt and the long fingers and the green-grey eyes that are now fixed on John as Sherlock brushes his chin along Suorsa’s shoulder.  Sherlock lifts his eyebrow briefly before pulling back, opening up a space between himself and Suorsa as he begins to extend a hand for one of the glasses.

John’s timing is impeccable as he plows into Suorsa, the choreography of spilled red wine and stammered apologies perfectly executed.  Suorsa is left sputtering and red-faced, still holding both glasses of wine, as John reaches into his back pocket for a handkerchief, blotting at the warm red liquid sloshed across Sherlock’s shirt.  John’s hand presses against Sherlock’s damp chest, where he notices the quickening rhythm of the heart beating beneath.  John looks up at Sherlock, the play-act of apologies drying up in his mouth as his finger brushes across the nipple hardening beneath the wet, clinging shirt.  For a moment, everything slows and quiets around John--no pounding music, no Suorsa gesticulating angrily behind him, no interruptions of their moment in kitchen of 221B--only the point of contact where his fingers are splayed across the heart and the bones of the man standing before him, Sherlock’s eyes widening, his pupils dilated into huge pools of black.  Then John feels an angry shove from the irate man behind him.

Attention refocused, John launches into a renewed round of false apologies, taking the glasses and promising to return with two new drinks.  After making his way out of the club and into the cool air of the night, John turns down the alley and leans against the rough brick wall, pursing his lips together and letting out a long, low whistle.  

"John."

John startles to attention, head turning towards Sherlock as he strides through the shadows.  Sherlock’s gaze sweeps over John, taking in the two glasses and the jumper folded on top of the skip behind him and who knows what else.  John steps forward, anticipating the whirl of Sherlock’s coat as he pivots to turn out of the alley, hail a cab, and head straight for Scotland Yard.  But this time John has anticipated incorrectly and he finds himself instead brushing up against the length of Sherlock’s coat.  

For a brief moment, John’s entire body is governed by a powerful desire to drink in Sherlock’s scent, to curl into the warmth of the coat and the man underneath.  But just as he lets himself begin to lean in, John remembers last night and he jerks away from those fragile boundaries, back pressed in retreat against the uneven brick of the wall behind him.  

Sherlock’s eyes pass over John again, a slow and thorough scan.  “I started to worry you wouldn’t come, John, that you’d gotten....”  Sherlock pauses for a moment and takes another small step forward, “distracted.”

“I did a bit. Get distracted I mean.”  John clears his throat, trying not to be distracted right now by how close Sherlock is standing, determined to erase the awkwardness of the previous night.  The words that come blurting out may not help.  “Well, I didn’t know you could dance like that, did I?” 

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth turn up slightly, though it’s not quite a smile.  “Cocaine was not my only means of alleviating boredom during university.  You might be surprised, John.”    

John can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes him.  “Sherlock—I, God Sherlock, I am constantly surprised by you.”  John lifts his chin, and when he tips his head up he’s surprised to find Sherlock’s eyes fixed so intently on his, to find the bow of Sherlock’s lips so close to his. “Surprised and amazed and,”  he feels the words narrow into a pleaded whisper, “And you know that. You must know that by now, Sherlock.”

They’re so very close now and Sherlock’s voice is a bit ragged. “It is a mistake, John, to theorize without all the facts.  It biases the judgement.”   John imagines letting the glasses fall from his hands, imagines the sound of them shattering if he grabbed the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and closed the last few inches between them.  John imagines these things, but stays where he is, wondering how many of these useless desires Sherlock can see on his face, in his eyes, still locked with Sherlock’s.

For one long moment Sherlock’s gaze seems not quite clinical.  Instead, he seems to be leaning down towards John, their lips moving closer to one another.  John dares not move, dares not break whatever spell has been cast around them in this dirty alleyway with the sounds of the club thrumming down from the street.  As Sherlock draws closer and closer but not close enough, John suddenly, inexplicably recalls the philosophical paradox he studied first year of uni: if the distance between two objects is constantly halved, can the two bodies ever touch?  In theory it seems impossible, impossible that Sherlock’s lips could ever touch his.  But he can feel the heat of Sherlock’s body as they move ever closer, the moment of contact seeming increasingly inevitable.  John gasps as he feels Sherlock’s fingers graze the back of his hand, delicately removing the wine glasses from his grasp.  

John hears Sherlock’s murmured invitation: “Do keep up, John.”  Neither of them move. 

When he looks up from the point of almost-contact between them, John forces himself to focus on Sherlock’s eyes rather than his lips.     

“Molly is waiting for us at Bart’s.”  

Another pause and Sherlock breaks the silence again.  “I have new evidence now.  I need to process it.”  

Sherlock smiles, turns on his heel, and disappears down the alley.  John pushes himself off the wall and sets off after him, determined to keep up.

****  
  



	10. VI.

VI.

John thinks it was not quite three weeks after he abandoned his cane and moved into Baker Street that Sherlock put the pieces into place.  It wasn't the graceful stride of John's movements as they pelted down streets, nor the fact that John knew how to use his powerful body to its best advantage when leaping over fences or dodging the items occasionally hurled by suspects desperate to put John off the trail.  No.  Finally, John suspects, it was his eclectic, rather spotty knowledge of classical music that tipped Sherlock off.  

That John knew _Swan Lake_ , _Sleeping Beauty_ , and the _Nutcracker_ (“Obvious holiday tripe!”) but not Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D major, did not appear to strike Sherlock as particularly odd.  Nor did he seem especially surprised that John could hum along with Stravinsky's _Firebird_ or _Rite of Spring_.  John's rather thorough knowledge of _Petrushka_ , though, did seem to take him aback.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes, tuned his violin, and began to assemble the data.  In the end, they spent an afternoon (rather a lovely afternoon, actually) with Sherlock unhurriedly testing his hypothesis ( _Romeo and Juliet_?  Yes.   _Lieutenant Kije_?  No.   _Daphnis et Chloe_?  Yes.   _Bolero_?  Yes.  Ravel's _Jeux d'eau_?  No.  Any Mozart?  Little.  Bach?  Even less.)  Sherlock nodded, satisfied.  John sat in his chair, reading the paper, the left corner of his mouth curving slightly.

Now, six weeks after their first meeting, they're standing in Trafalgar Square at nearly one  in the morning.

"Wait here, John," Sherlock calls over his shoulder.  "One last piece of information and I will be able to locate the safe house."  

As Sherlock strides off, John takes in the scene before him.  A line of ten or so small orange cones, set apart in four foot increments.  Two men and a woman take it in turns to rollerblade among them--jumping, turning, twisting, feet punching out frenetic rhythms, the gathered crowd breaking into applause to cheer a particularly showy turn or the end of a song.

The last song ends. As the skaters stack up their cones and audience members drift forward to drop money in the small bucket, John--instinctively keeping tabs on Sherlock's location--releases a puff of air as he sees Sherlock in conversation with a man of average height and decidedly larger than average nose.  Safe so far.  

John turns back to his own surroundings and finds someone else taking the impromptu stage outlined by the loosely gathered crowd. Short hair, low slung jeans, layered t-shirts.  The man (boy, really) sets down his boom box, presses a button, steps forward, and starts popping.  That's good, he's good.  The crowd calls out its appreciation.  John watches him closely, _observes_ Sherlock would say, the way only a dancer can observe another dancer.   _Years ago_ , John thinks and while his mind casts back to that summer a lifetime ago, his body must have started to move without his realizing it because suddenly John feels himself pushed from behind, out into the clearing.

The boy turns and, realizing he's got unexpected company, looks John up and down with a smirk.  Then the boy offers an exaggerated bow, arms sweeping wide, welcoming John, challenging him.   _He has no idea,_ John thinks. _Hardly anyone ever does._  John meets his eyes, clenches his jaw, breathes in through the nose.   _Right then, little pissant._

John thrusts out his right arm at a 90 degree angle, bends the wrist down a bit but stretches the fingers up.  Then he lets each joint shift into place. Part of his brain can anatomize the entire motion: distal phalanges, intermediate, proximal.  But the rest of his brain goes blissfully quiet as he bends at the wrist, forearm rising, right shoulder pushing in and down while the left shoulder pops up.  John ignores the flash of pain, focusing instead on the music, on what Rigo called the pulse and what John himself has always been able to visualize as a compact red sphere of light sliding through his body. He rolls his head, chin touching chest then looking out over the left arm as he pushes the imaginary ball of light towards his hand.  

There may be a small upsurge of approval from the gathered crowd. John doesn't much notice or care.  He lets the sphere slide back through the arm, this time letting it chart its path down one side of the body, then up the other.  He's got the boy's attention now, his respect.  They pop and they lock and before long they're taking it in turns, arms reaching, flying.  

How his body responds in this moment is something old, familiar, long forgotten. This headspace is where body memory kicks in, when John is outside his body, looking down as if from above, but hitting every beat, every angle, every combo just right.  God he’s missed this.

Right now, in this moment, John trusts his body in a way he thought was long forgotten (I can do that), so he drops back, fingers splayed.  He feels it, his fingers catching his weight, pushing him back up, falling to the ground then springing back.  When the music ends the boy puts out his hand, offers his respect.  John grasps the offered hand, pulls in a deep breath of night air, then ducks his head as he works his way back into the crowd, realizing that he's lost sight of Sherlock. 

John's on the verge of worry when Sherlock steps directly in front of him, hands in pockets, eyes fixed on John.  For a brief moment, John holds out hope that Sherlock saw nothing.  He quickly gives it up as a bad job and chooses instead to stare Sherlock down, daring him to laugh.

"That was--" Sherlock's voice trails off. "That was unexpected."

John decides to play dumb.  "What? Bad news on the safe house? Where to now?"   

"No.  No, no, not that."  Sherlock refuses to be distracted.  "I've already texted Lestrade instructions."  The way Sherlock's head tilts, the slight smile on his lips as he stares at John, makes John's stomach twist uncomfortably.  "You are, John."

John raises an eyebrow.

"You continue to surprise me."  Sherlock clears his throat.  "It is not an unpleasant feeling."  Then Sherlock turns abruptly and walks towards Northumberland Street. John expels a long, slow breath, then follows after.

 


	11. XI.

XI

“John.”

John keeps his eyes on his computer screen, but stretches his arms before him, fingers interlocked.  “Yes?” When there’s no answer, he looks across the room and sees Sherlock with his palms pressed together, fingertips touching lightly under his chin.  John answers again: “What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock snaps his head towards John, apparently surprised to be a participant in the conversation he’d initiated.  

“I need you to teach me to tango.”

“You…” John cuts off.  Whatever Sherlockian request he might have anticipated on this Thursday night, it wasn’t this.  “You need me to what?”

“Tango, John.  I need you to teach me to tango.”

“Well, ballroom or Argentine?  Because if it’s Argentine, I can do a passable milonguero, but I never quite mastered apilado.”

Sherlock hesitates for a brief moment, but then he’s out of his chair, long legs carrying him to John’s desk in a few steps. “That you would even ask such a question confirms that you have more than enough knowledge for my purposes.

“And what are your purposes, Sherlock?”  When John looks back up from the computer, he’s caught by the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze

“I need to learn an Argentine tango.”  Sherlock’s eyes remain fixed as he leans forward across the desk.  “And I need you to teach me.”

“Ah,” John considers, “It’s for a case then?”

Sherlock turns away with a noncommittal hum.  “Something that eludes me.”

John squints at the ceiling.  This is hardly the most unusual request Sherlock has made of him.  And certainly not the most unpleasant. John assesses the risks, already evident in the way his heart is racing.  Then he considers the potential.  After a moment’s hesitation, John clears his throat.

“Yes, well, first thing we need is a bit more space.”

****

*****

John’s thoughts race as he moves toward the center of the cleared sitting room. If anyone else with Sherlock’s grace had asked for dance lessons, John would have laughed them off.  Was it possible that Sherlock did actually need to learn to tango?  Or could John allow himself to hope for another motive?  He thinks again of their interrupted dance in the kitchen.  Of course, John reminds himself, with Sherlock there’s always another motive.  John’s gaze rests on his flatmate, who stands tapping out an erratic rhythm on John’s desk.

“Okay, before we start, tell me: What experience do you have you with partnered dancing?”

“Mummy insisted we learn to waltz.  And foxtrot. I found the whole thing—“

“ --Boring, yes, I can imagine.”  Predictable, John thinks, the disinterest in mere transport.  "Okay, so for purposes of this little lesson, I’ll lead, you follow.”  To John’s surprise , Sherlock merely nods.  “If you need to lead, for this case—“ John pauses briefly, but when Sherlock offers no response, he continues, “—or whatever this is, you can learn that later.”  

Sherlock nods again and John wipes his palms on his trousers.  “Right.  First thing you need to understand is this: Argentine tango isn’t like the waltz or the foxtrot.  There’s no set step.  It’s more like…,” John casts about for something less cliche before shrugging, “Well, it’s more like walking together with the music.”  

Sherlock shifts his weight slightly, but when he doesn’t move from the edge of their impromptu dance floor, John steps toward him and offers his hand.  After a short hesitation, Sherlock’s long fingers find their way, tentatively, to the palm of John’s hand.

John smiles at the feeling and pulls Sherlock towards the middle of the room. They stand facing each other, separated only by the length of John’s arm.

“Right.  Let’s begin with the abrazo, the embrace.  When most people think of tango they think of a close abrazo.” Sherlock nods minutely, and John checks the impulse to stroke the back of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb.  “Dancers like it because it’s easier for the lead to communicate direction when the bodies are closer together.”  

Sherlock loosens his fingers from John’s hand and John feels a burst of alarmed adrenaline—until Sherlock takes a small step forward and lightly runs his fingers up John’s arm to rest on his shoulder.  John can hear himself continue to talk, but he hardly knows what is tumbling out of his mouth.  All his attention is currently focused on the electric feeling of his hand placed now in the center of Sherlock’s back.  He looks up at Sherlock only to find Sherlock has tucked his chin to his chest and turned his gaze toward the floor, apparently fascinated by the lack of space between them.

“Well, yes,” John chuckles.   He gives himself a moment to enjoy the contact between them before determining that this posture will give away a bit too much about his own interests in this little dance lesson. “Yes, this is the close abrazo, though many beginners prefer to start with something a bit less, uhm, intimate.  So we’ll start a tad more open, shall we?”

Sherlock winces as John gently reestablishes the space between them.  Hope flickers in John and he holds back a smile by running his tongue over his lips.

It takes fewer than ten minutes for John to teach Sherlock the basic step and forward ocho. _Back, two, three, cross on the four, pivot, forward, open, together._   

Simple.

In retrospect, John should have known better.

****

* * * * *

 

“Christ, Sherlock.  If you want to learn, then take direction.  If you don’t, then bugger off.  I have other things I could be doing, you know.”

“It’s a simple question of physics, John.  If I were to lead, then—“

“No, Sherlock. This isn’t about height and you know it.” John drops his hands to his sides, stepping back to catch Sherlock’s eye. “If you want to learn to tango, we’re going to need to work together.”   

Sherlock holds John’s gaze, swallows, but says nothing.  John runs his hand over his face, pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Right.  We’re taking a five minute break.”  

 

John stands in the kitchen, finger absently wiping condensation from the bottle he’d pulled from the icebox, and reviews the evidence available to him.  Fact: Sherlock asked John to teach him to dance.  Could possibly be for a case, but John screens most of their cases from the comments submitted to his blog and Lestrade hasn’t texted in two days.  Conclusion: the tango is not for a case, or at least not a new one.  Next question: Why would Sherlock ask John to teach him to tango, if not for a case.  John takes a deep breath and contemplates a possibility that both thrills and terrifies him.  John may not be a genius, but he’s not an idiot either.  

_Christ, Watson: do it or don’t, but stop dicking around._

He walks back into the sitting room where Sherlock stands at the window, pulling aside a drape to peer at the street.  John takes a step forward, squares his shoulders, and addresses himself to Sherlock’s back.

“Do you trust me?”

Sherlock wheels around.  “John, that is a ri—“

But John cuts across Sherlock’s objection: “No, Sherlock. I don’t mean out there, on the streets, chasing down thieves and murderers.  Of course you trust me there.  I know you do.”  Sherlock’s posture drops back a bit, but his brow remains furrowed, eyes boring into John.  “The question I’m asking is do you trust me here, in the middle of our sitting room.”  John wills himself to take another step forward, to close the distance between them.  “Do you trust me in our home, Sherlock, with my arm around your waist.  Because if you want to learn to do this,” John swallows, “it’s not choreographed.  We have to do this together.”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. 

John begins to unbutton his shirt.  “Take off your shirt.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap to John’s.  “John, I hardly—”

“I said take off your shirt,”  John repeats, the steel of his military voice softened when he reaches out to smooth one of Sherlock’s wilder curls.  And when John whispers “Trust me,”  it’s no longer a command but an invitation, nearly a plea. 

Sherlock’s eyes are wide, his entire body frozen except for his eyes which dart across John, frantically gathering data.  John stands in place, allows himself to be read.   _Please_ , John thinks.   _Please say yes_.  After a few more seconds  John drops his hand back to his side, but doesn’t break eye contact. "It’s okay if you don’t want this,” John says gently, “it really is.  Then he leans up to whisper into Sherlock’s ear, “But if you do, then, I’m asking you: please trust me.”

Sherlock pauses a moment more before his long fingers move to the collar of his shirt.  Moment of hesitation over, his fingers move quickly, releasing each button with a pop.  Sherlock finishes his last button as John folds his own shirt over the back of his chair and pulls off his vest.  Eyes locked on John, Sherlock shrugs the shirt to the floor at his feet.

John swallows but his hand is perfectly steady as he extends it to Sherlock.  

And then it all unfolds in a kind of slow motion, and some part of John’s mind can see it all, can inventory everything that happens next.  The first point of contact: Sherlock’s fingers hovering over John’s palm, a feather-light touch.  The second point of contact: John’s fingers brushing between Sherlock’s fifth and sixth thoracic vertebrae; John wonders at the warmth of the bare skin under his hand.  The third: Sherlock's fingers resting on his shoulder, gently tracing the ridges and whorls of the scar tissue there.

John is whispering the eight count now, and the room, the world, has narrowed to the feel of his thigh touching Sherlock’s as he pivots on the five; to the sight of Sherlock’s neck curving nearly imperceptibly forwards as if to draw John closer and closer toward the next, inevitable point of contact: John’s lips brushing against Sherlock’s long, elegant throat.  Sherlock releases a groan and pushes himself further into the straight line of John’s body.

Their bodies pressed together now, John marvels at how remarkably pliant Sherlock is in his arms, how responsive to his every move, his every touch.  John presses forward, and Sherlock sways back, his feet nimbly weaving about John’s stride.  John picks up the tempo, pulling into a tight turn, and Sherlock ornaments it with a perfect _rulo_.  John brings them towards the window then holds the pause for nearly a full eight count, and Sherlock is perfect in his stillness.  In the weight of that quiet, that suspension before they press into motion, John feels the rapid syncopation of his heart and Sherlock’s, not quite in time, both beating madly.  

John continues to weave them around the room, now with his forehead lightly brushing against Sherlock’s offered cheek.   

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?”

“The tango.  It’s not for a case, is it?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock’s breath hitches as John crosses, pressing him across the floor.

“Then why, Sherlock?”

Johns strains to hear Sherlock’s reply, almost a whisper against his ear: “Surely that’s obvious too, John.  Even to you.”   

“Yes, Sherlock, I think it is obvious.  Even to me.”   They’ve grown still now and John’s almost past the point of asking, but does anyway.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

John ghosts his lips to Sherlock’s ear, closes his eyes, and takes the leap.“I want to kiss you.  Is that—would that be okay?”

The pause before Sherlock’s reply would be unbearable if John couldn’t feel the slight nod of Sherlock’s head in the seconds before he whispers his assent.  John pulls back slowly, meeting Sherlock’s eyes before they flutter closed.  The first touch of their lips is surprisingly slow and tender, not at all what John had imagined in his catalog of fantasies.    

Once, twice, three times their lips press together, the gesture almost chaste, though John can tell from the way Sherlock’s fingers quiver along his neck that he’s not the only one fighting to maintain his composure.  When their lips meet again, John cautiously explores Sherlock’s parted lips and Sherlock’s small, responsive gasp goes straight to John’s cock.  John tightens his grasp, Sherlock whimpers into John’s mouth, and the whole thing escalates.

Restraint now abandoned, John grabs the back of Sherlock’s head, pulling him deeper into the kiss while simultaneously turning them a few steps towards the wall.  John’s hand protects Sherlock’s head as the rest of his frame slumps against the wall with a groan of pleasure.  John’s hands reach down to find Sherlock’s wrists, pressing them up against the wall as John kisses a trail down Sherlock’s exposed neck.  He smiles at the needy whine that escapes Sherlock’s lips.

“God, Sherlock.  Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

John feels as much as he hears Sherlock growl.  “Do you have any idea, John, how long I’ve wanted you to do this?  How hard I have worked to get you to do this?

“Sorry, what?” John straightens up, pulling back to get a clearer look at Sherlock.  His eyes are closed, his fingers rest awkwardly on John’s hips, and his head shakes slightly as the words continue to tumble out.  

“Weeks, John.  Months.”  John returns to lavishing kisses and small nips on Sherlock’s neck, his collarbone, the concave depression under Sherlock’s bobbing Adam’s apple. “But the data were so contradictory.”  Sherlock wriggles underneath John.  “Had to be sure.  Needed, wanted _you_ to—”  He breaks off with a moan.

“So let me get this clear: you seduced me into seducing you?”

“Mmmmmm.”

John places another kiss along Sherlock’s throat and teases, “And was it worth it?”

Sherlock stills, then  turns the spotlight of his attention onto John. “As far as it’s gone, yes.

John holds that gaze for a moment, suddenly not breathing.  “Would you like it to go further?”  John swallows. After a moment of silence, he provides Sherlock an easy out: “Because if you don’t, that’s—“

“Yes.”

Sherlock gives a small nod, which John, after a moment, returns. “Right, yes.”  He reaches his fingers around the palm of Sherlock’s hand and gives it a small squeeze before leading Sherlock across the room and towards the stairs, where he hesitates.  “Upstairs?  Or—”

John reads the slight shake of Sherlock’s head as Sherlock steps past him.  He pushes open his bedroom door but doesn’t step inside. He is waiting, John knows, for him.  John doesn’t hesitate to pull Sherlock into another kiss, one he uses to maneuver Sherlock past a small stack of books and papers, around the desk, and to the edge of the neatly made bed.  Before John can even ask, Sherlock tips them both onto it.

“Impatient git,” John laughs.  He rolls to his good shoulder and pulls Sherlock next to him.

“To the contrary, John, I have been patient.”  Sherlock’s eyes close as he continues, “So very, very patient.”  John runs his fingers up the length of Sherlock’s arm and into those curls.  Sherlock shudders slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper.  “John—,“  John runs his thumb across those cheekbones, touches the corner of the lips now red and swollen, “don’t make me wait any longer.”

As John gazes across at Sherlock, he wonders, not for the first time, about Sherlock’s past.  On the one hand there is Insatiably Curious Sherlock of the Experiments, Hedonistic Sherlock of the Designer Shirts and Expensive Hair Products: John cannot imagine a past in which  Sherlock hasn’t experimented with—and excelled in—all manner of sexual encounters.  On the other hand, there is Aloof Sherlock, Contemptuous Sherlock, Lonely Sherlock.  John’s seen too much of how he’s casually despised by old acquaintances and current colleagues  alike to easily imagine a past in which Sherlock has ever received the tenderness John wants to show him in this moment.  And for the life of him John can’t imagine why this should be, how this could be, when he looks over at the wide eyes, the soft lips.

This time when John leans in to kiss Sherlock, he reaches an arm past Sherlock’s shoulder and lifts himself over Sherlock’s body, which John now has pressed flat against the mattress.  Sherlock’s breathing grows faster, shallower, as he looks up at John through heavy-lidded eyes, and John lightly runs his fingers down Sherlock’s arm to find a hold in the band of fabric resting slightly below the hipbone.   Sherlock squirms up into the gentle tug on the fabric, lifting his mouth to find John’s as he wraps his arms round the back of John’s neck.  John sinks, blissful, into the contact, their bare chests pressed together, the rest of them separated by too many layers, as John settles into the space created by Sherlock’s now spread thighs.  John can hear Sherlock bite back a gasp as he feels his cock, fully hard, press against a similar pressure in Sherlock’s trousers.  

John relaxes into the pleasures of teasing gasps and moans from Sherlock by doing little more than kissing him—slow and tender, deep and demanding, in turns.  Sherlock is surprisingly content to let John set the pace, baring his neck to John’s licks and bites and kisses as he repeats John’s name again and again, building in volume and desperation.

John bends his lips to Sherlock’s ear, scrapes his teeth on the soft fleshy lobe.  He smiles and brushes his fingers lightly across the neck offered beneath him. “You like being kissed here.”

Sherlock responds by pushing up, seeking more contact.  

John slides his mouth across Sherlock’s shoulder and towards the middle of his chest, stopping to flick his tongue across the hardened nipple before applying a gentle pressure between his teeth.  Sherlock bucks underneath him.  “And here.”

Emboldened, John runs his tongue down Sherlock’s chest towards his naval, swirling round it before increasing the pressure of suction.  “Hmmm.  No, not there—though you wouldn’t stop me, would you?”  Sherlock’s head shakes from side to side on the pillow, eyes shut tight.

“What about here then?”  John sucks at the skin over Sherlock’s hipbone as he brings his fingers to rest over Sherlock’s flies.  He pauses and removes his mouth, his hands, no contact at all: he looks up to Sherlock, finds his gaze.  Once Sherlock’s head bobs up and down in his wordless request, John undoes the button and zip.  His hands slowly lower the trousers towards Sherlock’s knees while John leans in towards the sight of Sherlock’s cock straining against his briefs.  John breathes in the scent and nuzzles against the hard length of Sherlock’s cock, now leaking a small damp patch toward the band of the briefs.  Sherlock whimpers as John brushes his lips back and forth.  

After several minutes of teasing them both by mouthing various levels of pressure with tongue and teeth, John can’t help himself: “And what about—“ But John doesn’t even finish his question before Sherlock’s own hands are scrabbling to push down his pants.  John chuckles and his fingers brush against Sherlock’s as takes hold of the band and lifts it out and down, releasing Sherlock’s bare cock to John’s gaze.  Placing his thumb and index finger around the base of Sherlock’s cock, he dips his head and starts licking from the bottom up, flicking his tongue on the ridge of the glans without taking the entirety in his mouth—not yet.

Sherlock has begun a soft litany of John’s name, begging, pleading for more and more and oh god John more.  John’s own cock is uncomfortably hard, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Sherlock is coming apart so magnificently underneath him.  Sherlock has dissolved into whimpers now, head canting from side to side as John builds a slow, tortuous anti-rhythm, and John thinks maybe he’s teased him long enough and so, after licking a broad stripe across his own palm, fists it around Sherlock’s shaft and quickly, deeply takes the whole bulbous head into his mouth.  

Sherlock’s hands, which have been up above his head and out of John’s reach suddenly drop next to his waist, first with palms flattened, then with fingers balled around the bedsheets.  John pulls off with a pop, and smiles up at Sherlock.  He loosens Sherlock’s right hand from its grasp and places it on the back of his own head.  “It’s okay, Sherlock.”  He places another kiss on the glans as Sherlock gazes down, eyes glazed over with lust: “I want you to.”  

John takes the length back into his mouth and feels Sherlock’s grip tighten on his hair as he slides his mouth up and down the length, increasing his suction as he works to relax the back of his throat, welcoming the pressure as Sherlock bucks up into his mouth with increasingly erratic motions.  John’s found his rhythm now, is relentlessly pushing Sherlock towards orgasm, then pulling back, only to take him to the brink again.  John hums around Sherlock and shifts his body, finding a way to rub his own rock hard erection against Sherlock’s shin.  

Sherlock’s fingers have tightened in John’s hair again, pulling John up and off.  “Here John, here, not like this—“  John looks up at Sherlock, then takes a bit of preejaculate with the tip of his tongue, and delivers it to Sherlock’s waiting mouth.  Sherlock, desperate to taste himself, sucks on John’s tongue as he scrabbles with John’s button and flies.  

Together they remove all John’s layers and push Sherlock’s own trousers from around his ankles.  Then slowly, agonizingly slowly, John brings them into contact. Using his good arm for balance, he nudges the head of his cock along the length of Sherlock’s as they both groan.  John reaches with his other hand, still slick with spit, and wraps it around them both.  He clenches his jaw with the effort of not coming immediately and Sherlock seems to be mounting a similar effort as his hands pull frantically at John’s hair, his back, his arse.  Although the angle of his wrist makes it difficult to provide much friction, John knows it’s not going to take much.  He can feel his own orgasm begin to unwind and wants desperately to bring Sherlock there first.  

Sherlock is panting erratically beneath him and is plainly startled when John’s lips touch his again.  He kisses Sherlock deeply, and when they both break away, gasping for oxygen, John can’t hold it off much longer.  He moves his lips to Sherlock’s ear, “Now, Sherlock.  Now please—I want you to—,“ and Sherlock stifles a sob as he pulses beneath John.  Sherlock’s fingers curl into his shoulder and back hard enough to leave faint impressions of his nails, and John at last lets everything unspool, calling out Sherlock’s name before plunging into another kiss.  Sherlock kisses him through the last waves of his pleasure.  When John drops back to his good shoulder, Sherlock grabs hold of the hand wedged awkwardly between them and lifts it to his mouth, holding John’s gaze as his tongue swirls across his palm and laps between the fingers, licking away the evidence of their intermingled orgasms.  It’s damn near impossible, but John could swear he feels his just-spent cock twitch.

“Fuck, Sherlock.  You are—“

Sherlock looks at him expectantly

“You are amazing,” John breathes out.  “Extraordinary.  Gorgeous. Perfect.”

Sherlock says nothing, but wriggles closer towards John, nestling his head against John’s chest and wrapping his long arms around John.  John, amazed by the feel of these long pliant limbs curled around him, tightens his grasp.  The room grows quiet, the sounds of traffic on Baker Street filtering in through the distance.

“Stay?”

It is a whisper, so quiet John might not have heard it at all if he hadn’t been listening so intently for any sign, any signal at all from Sherlock of what would happen next.  

“Yes, God yes, I’ll stay.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the tango I had in mind as I was writing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cVAiEcemCXs  
> And here's the tango that gave me the idea in the first place: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eomGV4buJzM (Maybe this could be a follow up?!)


	12. XII.

XII

John takes the stairs up to 221b slowly, the full impact of the past 36 hours crashing down on him.  The call, the bloom of gratitude on finding that Sherlock had packed him an overnight bag before he’d even rung off with Clara, the dread of the journey to the hospital where Harry had been admitted, the consultations with doctors, the tearful conversations with Clara, the police paperwork, the inevitable confrontation with Harry.  Two, three days at most until her release.

And then what?

_Tomorrow_ , John thinks, as he presses both thumbs into the point where eyes and nose meet, trying unsuccessfully to release some of the tension.  Dinner and bed and _damn_ , John stops short, a few steps from the top. John texted ahead, so he knows that Sherlock is expecting him, but John himself has no idea what to expect when he walks back through the door to 221b.

He feels a stab of regret at the memory of how he’d bolted out of the flat yesterday morning, leaving Sherlock wrapped in a bedsheet and little else.  Of course Sherlock knew exactly where he’d gone off to and why, but John can’t shake the feeling that running off that morning was a bit, well, a bit not good.  John thinks again of the feel of  Sherlock curling next to him in the bed and asking him to stay, of putting his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, of feeling Sherlock’s hands stroke slow circles on his chest, a memory he’d clung to greedily, guiltily, as he kept vigil in Harry’s hospital room.  Would it be wishing for too much to hope to crawl back into Sherlock’s bed tonight?  Or was it just a one-off for Sherlock, an experiment that once complete would be deleted?  The post-orgasmic haze had been surprisingly cuddly—but then John had answered the fifth ringing of his phone, and after that it had been non-stop crisis management.

John takes the last few steps up to the door, forcing himself to meet whatever waits on the other side.  Focusing his mind on more practical matters, John remembers that the pantry was empty before he left and the takeaway, even though Sherlock is unlikely to have eaten it, will have turned by now.  He sighs again, weighing the merits of calling for delivery or falling straight into bed.

No sign of Sherlock as he walks in and John resolves to not be disappointed.  If that night was not what he thought, not what he’d hoped—if Sherlock is still married only to The Work and John is left with little more than memories of Sherlock quivering in pleasure underneath him—then John’s goal is, must be, to save their friendship.  There’s a clatter from the kitchen and John braces himself for the sight of a Sherlock who’s deleted the entirety of that night, a Sherlock who will ignore John in favor of his latest experiment, one that will no doubt involve body parts in various states of decomposition.  Or an explosion.  Possibly both.  

Instead Sherlock steps out of the kitchen and, without a word, takes John's overnight case from his left hand, replaces it with a glass of red wine, and steers him with a gentle pressure behind his right shoulder blade toward John's chair.  Exhausted and vulnerable, John holds Sherlock’s surprisingly tender gaze for a moment, unable to articulate any of the questions racing through his mind.  Sherlock gives a small nod, then gestures to the chair, a clear invitation to John, who sinks down into it. Sherlock turns wordlessly back toward the kitchen and John’s exhaustion momentarily overpowers his worry as his eyes flutter closed to the sounds of the oven opening then closing again, the scrape of a large spoon against the bottom of a pot, the flare of a match bursting into light.  There is a gentle touch on his arm and when John opens his eyes Sherlock still says nothing but inclines his head toward the table which is cleared and set.  John hefts himself out of his chair and follows.

Although he has said nothing since John walked into the flat, John knows that Sherlock has deduced the most relevant facts already. He’s unbearably grateful to not have to say anything.  John looks at the plate before him: coq au vin.  John makes an appreciative noise, then rolls his shoulders, his breathing growing deeper, fuller now, his ribcage expanding, the tension that had knotted him for the last day and a half loosening.  When John looks across the table, Sherlock watches him closely, very occasionally taking a bite from the plate he'd set in front of himself.  

When John at last finishes, using a final bite to wipe up the last bit of sauce from the plate, Sherlock rises and takes both plates to the kitchen.  John lets him, grateful, and when he looks back toward the kitchen he finds himself the subject of Sherlock's gaze as he stares from the threshold between kitchen and dining area.  

John starts to break the silence, but gets no further than the start of his name before Sherlock gently shakes his head.  He walks across the room, and crouches before John’s chair, meeting him at eye level.  “You are wondering, John, whether our time together two nights ago was an aberration, perhaps an experiment on my part.”  Sherlock twists his lips disdainfully.  “I assure you, it was not.  I desire you as much, more, than I ever have.” John leans into the feel of Sherlock’s thumb tracing the lines on his forehead, by his eyes.  “We can talk more tomorrow.  Tonight you are tired, and though no longer hungry, you show signs of needing physical comfort.” Sherlock stands.  “Here, take my hand.”

John doesn’t know what to expect, but doesn’t hesitate.  What he doesn't expect is the sudden sound of music from speakers, piano chords moving deep and slow, a slightly gravelly voice, _\--Everyone knows that I'm rightfully yours.--_  What he doesn't expect is an arm, Sherlock's arm, pulling him close into the warm circle of his embrace.  What he doesn't expect is how perfectly their bodies fit together again, how his head tucks under the slightly raised chin, how he can feel a soft rumble humming along with the music that seems to fill 221b.  

He doesn't expect how easy it is to follow when he's always, always led.  He doesn't know how it's possible to feel his heart expand past bursting or how it's possible to breathe when his world has grown so still and intimate.  He gasps as the arms wrapping around him pull him closer.  He listens to the hammering of the heart beneath him—Sherlock’s heart.

The song continues but John can't hear the words anymore, just the sound of a voice and the feel of an uncontrolled warmth rising in him,  and as they move, almost imperceptably, together, he is grateful, so profoundly grateful, to be home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, here's the song I had in mind: Jamie Cullum's "Love Ain't Gonna Let you Down"): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qn5QR2AHoN4&list=PL0dW5MGquCbVn-fYlduJIOGIPAC353cKC


	13. XIII.

XIII

John sighs and checks his watch: 30 minutes Sherlock’s been gone.  He’d hared off toward the kitchen, muttering something about regional dialects and tattoos and a drug cartel—and John had let him go, hoping it might avoid the increasingly inescapable outburst of deductions and insults. It was no surprise, of course.  He’d been amazed that Sherlock had agreed to accept the invitation at all—not only to the ceremony (a small civil affair) but to the larger reception as well.  It was a testament, John supposed, to Sherlock’s genuine affection for both bride and groom.  

John watches them work their way around the room, talking and laughing with their several dozen guests, and stands from his chair as they approach.  Molly adjusts the thin satin strap of her dress as she walks over, then throws her arms around John with a squeal of delight.

After a moment, John steps back, still holding her hands, and looks to Greg, who returns a conspiratorial grin as he tugs at the collar of his tuxedo jacket.  After offering congratulations, John turns again to Molly: “Any chance of a dance with the beautiful bride?”  Molly beams and John squeezes her hand before leading her through a small but joyful throng of Molly’s sisters and cousins and New Scotland Yarders.

Molly steps into his embrace, and they move easily with the blue-eyed soul Greg’s brother-turned-dj has playing.

“You look gorgeous, Molly.”  She giggles her thanks as John lowers her in a small dip.  “And you look happy—you both do.  You deserve it.  It’s a beautiful wedding.”

“It is, isn’t it?,” Molly sighs.  “Even after all the fuss with Greg’s ex and the mess with the other hall.”  Molly squeezes John’s shoulder.  “Thank Mycroft again for us, will you?”

John nods and guides her into a loose spin.  John relaxes into the give-and-take of their dance for a few more measures before Molly asks. “So, uhm, where’s Sherlock?”  

“Breaking up a drug ring in the kitchen, I think.”  John shrugs.  “I’m sure it won’t take long and he’ll be back.”

“No, yes, of course he will, I didn’t mean it like that.”  Molly follows John’s lead easily as he moves them through the various couples swaying in place on the dance floor.  “I’m just surprised he lasted as long as he did.  A wedding doesn’t exactly seem like his thing, does it?”

John’s about to agree when Sherlock’s smooth baritone breaks in, “Weddings are tedious.  Makes for too much desperation and envy in the room.  Take the woman in the purple dress, for instance—“  Molly bites her lower lip and John kicks at Sherlock’s foot.  Sherlock blinks slowly, then looks again to Molly:  “But you, Molly, are not tedious and you deserve all happiness.  Please accept my apologies.  And my congratulations.  I predict you and Lestrade will have many happy years together.”

“Thank you, Sherlock, that means a—“

“As long as Lestrade ignores the veiled threats from his ex-brother-in-law and you cease—“

“SHERLOCK,” John’s voice cuts across him and Sherlock pauses again.

“As I say, many happy years.”

Molly giggles and puts her hand on Sherlock’s arm.  “Thank you.  It means a lot to both of us that you’re here.”  

Now Greg has joined them, and he shakes Sherlock’s hand: “It’s good of you to be here, Sherlock.  We hoped you would be.”  He wraps an arm around Molly’s waist and she leans into the contact.  “Now if you gents don’t mind, I’ll have a dance with my wife.” Molly’s  falls into him willingly, laughing and leaning up to whisper something in his ear as he pulls her across the floor.

The music remains a low, romantic sway and John has halfway extended his hand towards Sherlock before he remembers where they are: at a wedding, surrounded by people who know nothing of their relationship.  Not just Molly and Greg (who John suspects must know, though he’s never said), but Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, and a dozen or so others from NSY.  He freezes.  They’ve never discussed the decision not to tell anyone; John doesn’t want to place too many demands on Sherlock.  Even after so many months it still feels new and fragile and precious.   _Christ, Watson, have a care, will you?_  John swallows, mutters something about needing a breath of fresh air, and beats a hasty retreat.

He’s still alone on the back patio fifteen minutes later when he hears the music surge then mute as the glass door opens and clicks closed again.  John can feel the weight of Sherlock’s unspoken reproach, and so he turns and nods, but says nothing.  

“You’re hiding, John.”

“No. “ It sounds defensive, even to John.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Okay.”  He forces himself to unfurl his clenched fingers.  “Right, yes. I am.”

“The question is, what from?”

John swallows and looks at Sherlock’s waistcoat rather than meeting his eyes.

“You don’t want to be seen dancing with me.” 

John's eyes snap to Sherlock's.  “What?”

“Don’t bother denying it, John.  I saw you lean in towards me and then pull back.  I saw the exact moment you remembered where you were, who might see you. 

John’s hardly breathing now, leaning forward to get a better look at Sherlock’s face obscured in the shadows.  

“Perhaps it’s your fear of being seen dancing with another man.”  To anyone else it would sound like a sneer.  John knows better.  

“No.”

“Then perhaps it’s just a reluctance to be seen dancing with me.”  Sherlock’s voice is quieter now but the words keep coming, too quickly for John to process, much less interrupt.   “Perfectly understandable, John.  I will not ask you to—“

It’s too much, John thinks.  It’s too much and it’s all wrong and how have they gotten so wrong footed, he wonders.  Sherlock’s posture has stiffened and his voice grown sharper and John can practically hear the defensive shell cooling, hardening beneath the surface of Sherlock’s apparent calm.  Without warning, without further thought, John grabs hold of Sherlock’s arms, pulls his rigid body towards him, and crashes their lips together.  Sherlock struggles for a moment, then melts in John’s embrace.  John’s heart is thudding painfully as he pulls back to see Sherlock’s eyes still veiled and uncertain.

“No, no, no, you beautiful idiot.”  John kisses him again.  “Look at me.  Really look at me.”  Sherlock’s eyes refocus, shifting over him, gathering information.  “Do you see now?  How could you think I wouldn’t--

Sherlock makes a soft noise, curls further into the circle of John’s arms.  

“Look—we’ve never talked about this and maybe that was a mistake.  If you want to keep this just between us, that’s fine.  It’s all fine.  But you need to know this: if it were up to me, I would take your hand right now and lead you out onto that dance floor.  If it were up to me, I would dance the slowest slow dance with you and I would leave absolutely nothing to the imagination of any one of the people in that room.  If it were up to me, Sherlock, I’d tell every single person in that room that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me and if it’s up to me I will be dancing with you for the—”

Sherlock says nothing, just blinks at John.

The noise John hears himself make sounds a bit like a laugh, even though nothing about this situation seems funny.  He clears his throat and looks to the sky before turning his gaze back to Sherlock.  “Okay, so no pressure, really, but yes, if it’s up to me I would dance every dance with you, now and,” he swallows, “and always.”

“Always, John?”

“Yes, Sherlock.  Always.”  

John waits for Sherlock’s reply, watches the bob of his adam’s apple as he says nothing but reaches a hand out toward John.  John takes it and uses his other arm to pull Sherlock’s hips into contact with his own.  Sherlock releases a small grunt as John kisses his neck, his ear, his lips.  

They’re not quite cheek-to-cheek now, but John can feel the warm, rapid fluttering of Sherlock’s breath as they move slowly together in the moonlight, to the faint sound of the music inside. “But only if you want to,” John whispers.

Sherlock gives a little nod and John doesn’t even try to hide his grin.  Sherlock in turn hums his pleasure.  

“So, how about it then?  Shall we go in there and dance?”

“No, I rather prefer the privacy of the patio, don’t you?”  Sherlock’s voice is a mere rumble and his hand has traveled down John’s back, pulling them closer together yet, even though the music has clearly ended.

John chuckles.  “Yes, I believe I do.”  John hears the 1-2-3-4 of the new song drift under the door, revels for a moment in the ease with which he and Sherlock move together: stride, direction, balance.  He leans forward to find Sherlock’s lips, then asks in hardly more than a murmur:  “May I have this next dance?”

“All of them John,” Sherlock whispers, returning the kiss.  “All of them.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic. Ever. So if you made it all the way to the end, thanks so much for reading! (And thanks again to mazarin221b for helping me get up the nerve to send this out into the world.) 
> 
> Here's a link to the song I heard in my head as I wrote this last chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJ3xTjvj9tw


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